Mr. Bingle was deeply distressed.
Rouquin had quite a surprise for them when they called at the bank for
him. As he settled himself gracefully in the seat beside Mrs. Bingle,
he announced that he had arranged with the heart-sick parents to fetch
the babe to his humble apartment at half-past four, where at least one
could be sure of avoiding the unfriendly presence of a too-persistent
rent-collector, to say nothing of the distressing odours of extreme
poverty. Indeed, said Monsieur Rouquin, it was not improbable that
they might find the excellent Rousseaus in the apartment on their
arrival there, as he had given directions to the janitor to admit them
without question. He couldn't bear the thought of poor little Madame
Rousseau standing outside in the cold hall with that adorable infant
in imminent peril of freezing to death because of insufficient
apparel.
"Are they descendants of the great genre painter?" inquired Mrs.
Bingle. There was a small painting by the great Barbizon artist in the
Bingle drawing-room. She had been reading up on Rousseau, and Miss
Fairweather had told her how to pronounce genre.
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